


Invocation

by Hoodoo



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Biting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feathers & Featherplay, Fucking, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Smut, Summoning, Summoning Circles, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22585159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Be careful what you summon . . .
Relationships: Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/Reader, Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/You
Comments: 20
Kudos: 134





	Invocation

The weather was perfect. That was important. A gibbous moon hung like an ornament in the sky. Zero clouds. The day had been warm but the night chilly, which made mist creep along the grass and curl around the trees. 

You left all the windows in the room open to allow the night air in. It filled your lungs with its sharpness. The chatter from night insects was loud at first, but faded into background white noise.

Nude, and by candlelight, you sketched runes and sigils on the wooden floor. The chalk dust felt gritty on your hands, flaking off into a fine powder. The circle was large, taking up most of the floor space, with only a bit of room to walk around it near the walls. It had to be this way, to encompass the low table you’d prepared as an altar in the middle. 

It’d taken some time, making the altar. It was simple, a plank of cherry wood and rudimentary legs. You were no carpenter, after all. But you’d sanded it till near silk smoothness, and it was sturdy, easily able to support you with no creaking or wobbling. 

You’d also annointed it with clary sage, rosewood, and rose oil. All mood enhancers, all with properties to arouse. Some of those oils you’d dabbed on certain spots on your body too: wrists, neck, behind your knees, your inner thighs. In the soft flickering of the candles, the oil made your body shine. A small pot of of baby oil with a drop of the same rose essence sat under the altar.

Humming softly under your breath, you meticulously made your way around the room on your hands and knees. 

The candles provided no warmth. The stick of incense you’d lit made the room smokey; its fragrance filled the air with heavy perfume, countering the fresh air from the open windows. You were almost done. Just a few more sigils to create. 

Something flitted in the deep corners of the room. 

Good. 

You’d been hoping all your work would intrigue him. Attract him. But you ignored everything, even when you felt a subtle caress across your back. It was feather light, spider web light. You kept your head down, the tune you hummed unpaused, your hands still working to create the precise symbols, like nothing had happened. 

The touch occurred again, and again, slightly more forceful each time. The last felt like a ragged nail drawing a line down your back. You continued to ignore it, and he left you, slinking back into the dark corners the candlelight didn’t illuminate. 

One sigil was left to draw. Before completing it, you left the worn down nub of chalk where it was, stood up, and retrieved the last few items needed: two feathers, one stiff and one soft, a glass of water that you had poured and left by the door, and some matches. The presence you’d sensed slunk up behind you, a spectral puff of air that tickled your skin, a faint whisper that begged you to acknowledge it.

You didn’t. 

You gathered the supplies, made sure not to smudge any of the drawings as you returned to the bare spot on the floor, and stepped into the circle. You made especially sure to step over the thin line of powder that you’d drawn first, inside the symbols. A circle within a circle.

From the inside, leaning precariously over the inner circle, you drew the final symbol. 

The presence, although unseen, gave a wavering, angry cry.

You continued to ignore him. You wanted his attention, and now you truly had it. 

You stood up and left the bit of chalk where it was, but took the other objects up. Carefully, you dusted your hands off, patting your outer thighs so the some of the dust transferred to them. You made your way to the altar. The glass of water was set under the table, along with the matches. The feathers you kept in hand as you adjusted the two silk pillows you’d brought in before any of the ritual began. 

Carefully, keeping one pillow under your head and the other under your lower back, you lowered yourself onto the altar. Although it was long enough to support most of you, you settled so your head, back, and ass were on it, while your legs were off. It was low enough that with your knees bent, you could support yourself; if you pushed your feet up so you were only on the tips of your toes, it canted your pelvis upward a little. 

You kept your feet flat, for the moment.

You breathed deeply, imagining one lung filling with the aroma of incense, the other with sharp night air. You imagined the two swirling into your blood stream, joining to create a new air that reached throughout your body, touching each cell. You were perfectly conscious of the press of the wooden altar, the sound of your own breathing, the warmth of the nearest candle. Relaxing bit by bit, you let the feel of the wood at your back fade away, and focused on yourself. 

Using the softer of the two feathers, a peacock’s tail feather that occasionally shined when the candlelight caught it just right, you drew it down your front. The fine, loose tips barely registered on your skin, but slowly your nerve endings woke up. You made long sweeping movements with the feather, from neck to knees, never lifting it. 

Under the light massage, you relaxed more. Any remaining tenseness in your muscles gave way, and it felt like you were floating. Just to tease youself, you dragged the feather up the inside of your thighs, and your knees fell open a little more. 

A pleased whisper just at the edge of hearing alerted you that you were still being watched.

It was easy to ignore, as relaxed as you were. You let the peacock feather fall to rest across your stomach, and your hand found the stiffer feather, a crow’s flight feather. It looked dull black in the flickering candlelight, as dark as corners of the room. 

With it, you ignited your nerve endings more. Each stroke of the feather tickled and made you shiver. You dragged it with more intent not just along your sides or tops of your thighs, but to circle each breast in a tightening spiral till the tip of the feather met your nipple, and you purposefully gave each a slightly harder flick, just to make them stand up.

When it was pleasant but just not quite enough, you rolled your nipples between your fingers, arching your back ever so slightly at your own touch.

You left your chest alone then, and tapped the crow feather down your body. After a second, you stopped, sat up, and fumbled for the small vial of rose-scented oil beneath the altar. Carefully you dipped the tip of the feather into it, then lay back down. You painted the oil in wide designs onto your spread inner thighs, and that made the whisper from the unseen entity increase in intensity. 

You gave a slow smile, more to yourself than to give him attention, and when the tip of the feather felt drier again, you deliberately drew it up the folds of your pussy.

It tickled more there than anywhere else, and you giggled, then did it again. The whisper from the edge of the room stopped, but not because it was gone; it seemed to be holding its breath.

Deftly you repeated the motion again and again, each time using the feather to stimulate yourself with a little more intent. By the time it brushed against your clit, it was like a tiny explosion burst in your gut, and you gasped, even though you knew it was coming. 

Suddenly, the feather wasn’t enough. You dropped it, letting it fall to the floor near where you imagined the peacock feather had disappeared to and quickly, impatiently, you stuck your fingers into your mouth before your hand went back to your pussy, slipping to your clit immediately and stroking yourself. You mewled at the instant pleasure it gave you, and there was a sound outside the circle that was more frustrated than aroused. 

You laughed, because that was part of this too; laughing and teasing and touching yourself intimately. Your fingers knew their work and you played with your clit till you were shuddering, before letting them slip further down and dipping one, then two fingers into your cunt. You went up on tiptoes, with that, giving yourself more access. You brought your hand to your mouth again and sucked the taste of yourself off your fingers--from outside the circle there were more sounds, a whine, a deep throated groan, an impatient, heavy feeling that didn’t want to be denied--and when you put your hand back between your legs to push three fingers into yourself, you gasped and canted your hips and held still, so still, because an orgasm was quickly approaching. 

You curled your fingers minutely inside yourself and used your wrist to provide heavy pressure on your clit, and you came like fireworks, explosive and lingering sparks falling through your belly.

Time lost its hold on you for a moment. When you came back to here and now, gasping for air, you still had to wait a moment before the tremors in your legs stopped. Carefully, because you were so sensitive now, you removed your hand from between your legs and let it rest on your belly.

There was no sound now, outside the circle. It wasn’t like he had left. It was more like the anticipatory danger of a predator waiting to pounce. 

You allowed yourself a few more seconds to catch your breath. You’d done everything correctly, from waiting for the exact proper night to the circle of sigils to the number of candles. You’d added an additional feather, but that shouldn’t make a difference. You’d come on your own hand, while he was watching but not able to touch, and that was most important. 

It was all correct. Carefully you got to your feet and took a step to the inner circle. His presence mirrored you; you couldn’t see him but you could sense he was right in front of you, less than a foot away. Waiting. Calling his name was easy. Child’s play. There were other ways to get his attention, and bring him to you.

It was time for your reward.

Holding a leg up over the inner circle once more to not smudge it, you dropped your foot onto one of the chalk symbols, and slowly, deliberately, you destroyed it. 

Instantly he rushed you. You were caught in what felt like multiple arms and thrown backwards by his momentum. He was invisible outside the circle, but as he entered it, the powder from the inner one adhered to him and you could see him clearly. He was as nude as you were, his pale skin painted in warmer colors from the candlelight.

Beetlejuice dropped you back onto the altar. It should have hurt, but his arms buffered between you and the wood, and even before you could take another breath he’d situated himself on his knees between your legs, and shoved his face in your pussy.

Your legs came up at the touch of his mouth covering your pussy, and he shouldered them easily, keeping his mouth in place and delving his tongue into you. He had more control and finesse with the appendage than anyone you’d experienced before, using it to slip inside you and put pressure on your g-spot in a way different than fingers or, if you were lucky, a cock. Your thighs locked around his head, and you reached down to grab a handful of his hair.

Beetlejuice’s tongue did sinful things to you, but it wasn’t quite the stimulation you were looking for. You gave him a tug upward, to give him a clue, and you felt him laugh. The vibration tickled and you laughed too, before that giggle became a moan as he took your hair-pulling suggestion and focused his attention higher, on your clit. 

With his arms curled around your hips so you couldn’t get away, he sucked and lapped at you in no pattern at all. You keened wordlessly in pleasure, your fingers locking tightly in his hair. His tongue didn’t stop until you came on his mouth, attempting to grind onto him with no success because there was nothing for your feet to brace against. Your own voice sounded cracked to your ears, and through the waves of pleasure you felt him laughing again. 

When you were finally able to release him, however, the look on his face as he lifted his head was much less amused and much more hungry. His tongue darted from his mouth, just a touch longer and more pointed than was natural, licking his chin clean of your taste, and in the next second, with no easy movement from his position kneeling between your legs, he was atop you, holding your wrists tightly above your head. 

He lay heavily on your chest and leered into your face, his eyes alight with the power you’d granted him by opening the circle. His tongue slipped down and wriggled between your lips before his mouth touched yours, and even when he kissed you it remained wide and lithe, pushing down your own tongue to fill the space. 

You worked to control your gag reflex, then sucked his tongue hard, like you would a cock.

Beetlejuice’s grin broke the kiss. 

His tongue retreated and he tilted his head to plant kisses that felt more like bites on the delicate skin on your neck and shoulder. Your arms were still stretched on the altar above your head; you were vulnerable under him, immobile, and he pushed one thigh between yours. 

You would never be able to say how he did it, going from laying directly on you, straddling one of your legs to just laying directly on you but between your legs, nor did you question that his arms were stretched holding yours but another hand obviously held his cock steady as the tip slipped through your sopping folds. On one downward stroke he paused a moment, then thrust his hips forward.

Crying out, you almost jerked out of his grasp as his cock filled your pussy. At your movement, Beetlejuice bit down onto your shoulder with more intent, growling. That made you cry out in a different way, and you arched under him, trying to relieve the sharp pain. It rocked the two of you in a weak facsimile of sex, and the resulting pleasure made him release you. 

He licked the spot he’d just bruised, then buried his head against the side of yours, fucking you furiously. The areas in your groin where the points of his hips made contact again and again started to ache. The friction his cock created was heavenly, and you locked your ankles over the small of his back to keep him from moving too far away.

Thrusting hard against you, Beetlejuice made the wooden altar shift and screech a little as it was forced across the floor. You should ask him, beg him, to slow down, but this was too good, too good, you’d already come twice and you were barreling towards the third--

With a noise you couldn’t have stopped even if you wanted too, you came on his cock, your pussy spasming even as he didn’t give you a reprieve, fucking you through your orgasm.

He didn’t last much longer either, with the extra stimulation. His pace faltered and with another deep thrust that pressed his pubic bone tightly against yours, he came buried inside you, his howl rivaling yours. 

Then he collapsed fully onto you, like he was dead weight.

You wrangled your wrists out of his fists and stroked his hair for a moment, then pushed at him when you needed to take an actual breath. 

“Hey. Hey! Are you falling asleep? You’re crushing my lungs, Beej!”

Lazily he lifted his head. “You’re breaking the illusion babe. You were summoning an incubus. You’d be happy an incubus was crushing your lungs, because you’d be so distracted by their , seductive, unstoppable sexual energy. That’s how they get you.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not an incubus, and I want to _breathe!”_

You poked him, hard, with two fingers, in the ribs.

Yelping from the jab and then grumbling, Beetlejuice pushed himself off you. He offered you a hand to help you sit up, then sat beside you on the wood bench. He looked over the room.

“Nice symbols,” he complimented, nodding towards the chalk circle. “Did you make them up?”

“Yeah, most of them.”

“Huh. And what about that?” He pointed to the layer of powder you’d drawn inside the outer circle. 

“Powered foxglove. I read it’s supposed to make the invisible visible,” you told him, gingerly touching the spot on your shoulder where he’d bitten you.

He saw what you were doing. 

“Oh! Sorry, babe! I didn’t mean to get carried away. I just got so worked up, I forgot myself for a minute,” he apologized, pulling your hand away so he could examine the mark he’d put on you. “It looks bruised. And, uh, one tooth might’ve punctured your skin, I think. Sorry!”

“Beej!” you complained. “This hurts like a son of a bitch! I need to go clean it up!”

“I’ll help,” he offered, standing and giving you a hand. As he led you to out of the room you’d made up like a summoning ritual he asked, “What was with the water? You weren’t wearing any clothing, so it’s not like you could’ve used it for a wet t-shirt or anything.”

“It was in case I got thirsty!” you exclaimed, squinting as you turned on the light in the hallway. “I was breathing in all that chalk dust! I probably have some kind of lung disease now!” 

In spite your grousing, you stopped him and said, “That was a fun time, Beej. If you think you want to play out “summoned incubus again”, I’m down for it.”

He grinned, kissed you, and took you into the bathroom so you could attend to your shoulder and get cleaned up. 

_fin!_


End file.
